


sleep together

by Purrgatorio (Nekositting)



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anti-Soulmate Kinktober 2020, Dark, Dark Steve Rogers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fear, Fridge Horror, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Third Person Limited, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Purrgatorio
Summary: “We’ll fix this.”The resignation was still on Steve’s face, but the apology, the regret, was gone. Tony’s breath stuttered to a halt in his chest like the failing engine of a truck at the sight.“Ican fix this.”
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62
Collections: Anti Soulmate Kinktober 2020





	sleep together

**Author's Note:**

> **PromptL** : Fear Play/Erotic Horror
> 
> Happy kinktober everyone <3 
> 
> This is sad, angsty, and dreadful in the best way possible! :) If you had to listen to a song while you read this, I highly recommend listening to sleep together by Porcupine Tree. It's a wonderful song (and also a part of an even greater album).
> 
> Thank you for betaing, blue!

Everything in his peripheral spun. 

Tony tried to catch himself on his hands and knees, to shake off the wave of vertigo taking his stomach for a rollercoaster ride through hell, but there was no quelling the sensation. 

In and out, the world came out of focus. 

There was only one point of stability. One figure that set a sharp contrast to the world writhing around him. 

Steve. 

He stood alone at the end of the living room, shrouded in shadow. The lights were off, and only the moonlight pouring from the window from behind Steve’s back lit up the space. It was dramatic to say the least. A little out of the ordinary considering who it was, but it wasn’t too much of a stretch of the imagination to believe that Steve couldn’t be dramatic when he needed to be.

The fact he was here without so much of a call, though, that was a tad strange.

“S-steve?”

Tony might have even commented on this point, in fact, had Tony not been struggling to keep his breakfast, lunch,  _ and  _ dinner in his stomach. It was difficult to focus on anything at a single time, not when there was a pang beginning to beat against his skull like the brain inside of it was fighting to escape through his eyeballs.

Was Tony having a stroke? A seizure?

_ Fuck _ .

“A l-little help, please?”

Steve didn’t say anything even as Tony swallowed shaky breaths to rein in the churning in his stomach, to stop himself from groaning from the building pressure behind his eyes. It was like someone was driving an icepick through his corneas. Hell, it was like someone was driving  _ sewing needles _ straight through his brain with his eyes as the fucking entry point.

God, what was wrong with him? 

What was wrong with  _ Steve _ ?

Not only had he shown up without so much as a word of warning, but he’d yet to make any move to help him. Clearly, Tony was in need of some assistance. Unless Steve was somehow under the impression Tony had taken up to doing  _ yoga  _ in the middle of his living room, the sight alone should have been cause for concern. 

There was something  _ off. _

Steve wasn’t the type to keep his mouth shut, even when Tony sometimes wished that he would, nor was he the kind of man that just sit on his hands when someone was in clear distress.

Tony couldn’t wrap his head around the image in front of him. Even with his world turning more and more into a damn Picasso painting, Tony could sense something was amiss. 

“A-are you okay?”

It was ridiculous, in hindsight, to ask. It wasn’t Steve lying on the floor, struggling to keep his guts in order. Tony just couldn’t help himself. He could have been nearing death, and at the sight of Steve in any sort of disrepair, he’d be tripping all over himself to make sure the man was fine.

There was something wrong with  _ Steve. _

Closing his eyes, Tony curled his fingers into fists to fight off a sudden wave of dizziness that overcame him. His mouth was wet with nausea, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth from where his mouth had fallen open to control his breathing.

_ Thump. _

A single sound. 

Tony snapped his gaze in its direction, and a rush of pain struck him in an instant. 

It was like someone had taken those sewing needles in his eye sockets and started to stir everything inside his head. His vision had gone white with agony, his spine bending inward to hide from the pain, but there was nowhere for Tony to go, to run.

The pain was spreading like a virus, rotting him from the inside out with each desperate breath he took. 

Tony wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when the low  _ thump _ sounded off again. His eyes were tear-streaked, but he looked slower this time. He’d done it too fast.

Steve came into focus, blurred at the edges, but the outline was unmistakable. 

It was Steve, and he was walking toward him. Slowly as though he were measuring the distance and weight of his own footsteps on Tony’s floor. 

It was wrong. 

Tony didn’t know how he knew. Maybe it was something instinctual, some uncanny sense of intuition, that woke a terrible sense of unease inside him, but—

Was this person skulking through his living room really Steve?

Tony sucked in a pained moan as he forced himself to focus on Steve’s boots. It was a matter of time before Tony couldn’t even keep his eyes open. The pain when he’d looked to fast had been excruciating, radiating and pulsing outward until it was at the base of his neck—

“S-steve?” Tony gasped the name out when Steve stopped in front of him. 

It took everything Tony possessed to lift his head up, to not collapse onto the floor entirely to catch a peek of Steve’s face in the darkened room. 

It wasn’t worth it, really. If Steve’s figure had been dark before, it was near impossible now to make out the look on his face. The silence was deafening, even the rush of blood pooling to his head wasn’t loud enough to masque the stillness.

“You’re conscious.”

_ What? _

Tony opened his mouth, but closed it again. Tony had the distinct impression he looked like something of a fish rather than a person in that moment, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Y-yes, that much is obvious to anyone with functioning eyeballs.” He cringed as he said it, swallowing hard to prevent the bile sitting at the back of his throat from climbing right out and spattering Steve’s shoes. 

“It must not have been the correct dosage.”

_ What was he saying? What was he— _

Steve was moving before Tony could completely process the thought, dropping to his knees in front of Tony’s face. His face was no longer obscured at this angle, not with the moonbeams hitting him in just the right way, and Tony almost wished that it’d still have been. 

He wished he’d shut that damn curtain.

There was an expression on that face, one Tony had never seen before on Steve’s face.

It looked like regret, like there was an apology there that sat on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t find the nerve to say, and resignation. 

Tony didn’t know which of them was worse. Apologies for wrongs that Tony wasn’t aware of was one thing, but  _ resignation _ , that was a more complicated thing. To be resigned meant that he was conscious on some level of the wrong, but was doing it anyway. It meant acceptance, it meant—

_ No. _

Tony tried to shuffle back as best as he could given the heaviness in his limbs, the blurry world along his peripheral, but he couldn’t stay still. Steve had drugged him. The spinning in his vision, the terrible taste in the back of his throat, the nausea: it was unmistakable.

Steve had _fucking_ drugged him.

“What h-have you done?”

It was like a hangover of the worst kind, and  _ god _ , how hadn’t he made that connection at first? How had he let himself get distracted with the fact Steve was there in the first place and not the fact that he was possibly having an adverse reaction to whatever concoction he’d been fed? What had he been thinking?

What had  _ Steve  _ been thinking? 

“What the  _ fuck  _ did you do to me?” Tony realized he was yelling after the fact, after the bile nudging for a trip to Tony’s living room finally did make its appearance. It burned on its way up, oozing from his nose when he hadn’t quite opened his mouth right. 

It smelled like rotten eggs and a mash of something he’d made once in college on a dare. His eyes were wet with tears, stinging along his tear ducts in the same way his vomit had melted its way up his throat and mouth. 

None of it got on Steve. The mild disappointment that he felt at this fact was enough to clear his thoughts to shoot Steve with the fiercest glare he could muster. Vomit and spit all over his chin and mouth wasn’t an intimidating look, but Tony didn’t care.

He was so angry that he might vomit a second time.

“Calm down, you’re only going to make it worse.”

Steve’s voice was soft, authoritative in a way that Tony had once dared to call comforting, and Tony laughed. It was shrill, like how Tony imagined someone who’d finally lost their marbles would sound, but he couldn’t stop it once it started. 

Better that he laugh than he cry, than he—

“You’re—“ Tony sputtered, coughed and shook, as he tried to settle his own breathing long enough to finish the phrase through his laughter, “—insane.”

Steve had just, in unequal terms, admitted that he’d drugged him, and now he was apologizing? It was ridiculous. Absurd. 

Steve’s hand fell to Tony’s shoulder, and that was enough to cut off all the laughter stirring up his chest. The weight of it, its heat, melted through the fabric. It was a sharp contrast to the cold, to the ice that had settled at the deepest part of him that he hadn’t noticed at all.

Numbed to the vertigo, to the nausea, to the weakness. 

“We’ll fix this.”

The resignation was still on Steve’s face, but the apology, the regret, was gone. Tony’s breath stuttered to a halt in his chest like the failing engine of a truck at the sight. 

“ _ I _ can fix this.”

Tony tried to pull away from the hand, but the sudden movement had whatever stability he’d found shifting again, like the floor beneath him had finally collapsed beneath him. Pain exploded in the back of his eyelids, and he screamed.

He didn’t feel the floor hit his face nor Steve’s touch on his shoulder. All of it vanished into the agony, melted into the pain until his world was pain, only pain. 

Tony didn’t know how long he screamed, how long he tried to breathe through his nose and open mouth. Hell, he didn’t know whether he was breathing at all, if he was even conscious anymore. This could have all been a dream, could have all been some elaborate nightmare. 

He sighed when something hot spread against the center of his chest, when that heat slid through each bump along his ribs, found the concave of his belly, and went lower still until it was clutching onto his dick. 

Tony shook, his back protesting, mind turning, as he sank into that sensation. It was better than the pain, than the cold. It grounded him, and Tony reached for it with all of his might, desperate to focus on anything but the white noise in his eyes and the dizziness.

That heat toyed with him, stroked and rubbed his dick in pleasant circles. It was like it knew just where to touch, where to dig into the glans and squeeze his balls. Tony swam with that acute sense of euphoria, with the pleasant wave that pulsed in time with his own heart. 

It was taking him to an edge, like a guiding hand at his lower back. So when a second source of heat found his back, poked and prodded at his asshole, Tony spread his legs wider, curled into that wave until it was caressing his furled hole, pushing in an inch at a time until he was shaking.

It was no longer pain, was no longer agony. 

The hum was all pleasure.

Tony opened his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything above him. Everything was black, except for the heat inside him, the pleasure dragging him closer and closer to the precipice of something, of—

“I love you so much,  _ so  _ much. I just—“

A voice that Tony recognized but couldn’t place washed through him, ebbing and flowing like the sands of time. It was louder than the white noise, but not by much. 

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

Tony’s toes curled as the heat spiked, something like a shock traveling up from that point inside him through to his spine, to the back of his head, to his brain. Tony cried out, unable to stop the writhing inside, to stop himself from twisting and squirming for more.

“But I can’t let you go, I can’t—“

Tony came with a cry, with a howl and a sigh fighting for dominance in the hollow of his own throat. The white noise consumed him, but it was like the pleasant buzz. It oozed through his senses, blanketed him in comfort and warmth. 

The darkness was endless around him, but it was okay. Everything was fine, it would be fine as long as the heat was there. He wasn’t in pain anymore, wasn’t scared. 

“It’s too late.”

There was a nudge of heat against Tony’s lips, and then he was drowning again, falling and flitting away.

* * *

Tony stretched over his bed, a sense of contentment flooding through his pores. He didn’t want to move, not for a long time. The grogginess was almost as powerful as that feeling of comfort, but that was nothing out of the norm.

His sleep hadn’t been the best in the last couple of weeks. Hell, it might have even been months. Tony couldn’t pin down when the nightmares had started, ruining whatever bit of sleep he could squeeze in between his obligations with the Avengers and Stark Industries, but still.

He wasn’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth. 

Tony curled further into the sheets, ready to let the grogginess take him back to the beautiful lands of sleep. 

Until his phone chimed off.

Tony groaned with frustration. Who could have possibly sent him a text this early in the morning? Couldn’t it wait? 

Tony rolled on his bed until he was close enough to the nightstand to grab his phone. He blinked, whatever remnants of sleepiness of his eyes vanishing like smoke, at the sight of “Captain America” on his notifications list. 

A rush of something Tony couldn’t name, couldn’t explain, swept through him. 

It was something akin to horror, to unease.

Tony dismissed it as readily as it had come, already accustomed to the strangeness. The nightmares all centered around Steve. At this point, he’d become Tony’s own personal boogeyman, and wasn’t that a laugh? To have some vestige of fear for the man he loved and couldn’t have because he kept having nightmares about him? 

It was ridiculous. 

But one couldn’t help their reactions, even when they knew they were irrational and unfounded. Tony knew that on a personal level.

So with that thought, Tony took a moment to read Steve’s standard “Good morning, just wanted to remind you that we have a meeting this afternoon with the team.” Tony got those almost every other morning, to date.

Tony responded with a quick “K,” and he was turning back into his bed, not even bothering to put his phone back in the nightstand. 

It was early. The meeting wouldn’t be for some time. 

Tony settled into his sheets, already feeling excess fatigue take hold of him. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d be late.


End file.
